


Always By The Book

by veronamay



Series: FBI!Jensen 'Verse [1]
Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Federal Agent, Denial of Feelings, Gunshot Wounds, M/M, Seduction, Witness Protection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-05
Updated: 2007-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-27 21:22:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 15,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/666635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veronamay/pseuds/veronamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jensen's a Special Agent with the FBI.  Jared's a witness in a federal murder trial.  Can Jensen spend a week in Jared's company without (a) wanting to kill him and (b) completely falling for him?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Don't you die on me, Jared."

His voice sounds shaky in his own ears, hands clutching too hard, too tight as Jared slumps to the ground. "Not now, c'mon, don't you fucking _dare_ —"

_Backup, where the fuck is the fucking backup_ , and then there are heavy footfalls up the drive and Mike and Tom burst into view, guns held low.

"Where?" Tom asks.

"That way. Thirty seconds," Jensen says with a terse jerk of his head, and they're already moving, heading down the street with barely a glance in Jared's direction, minds on the job. Which is good, because Jensen's mind isn't anywhere near the job. He's just sitting there with Jared's body in his lap on the front fucking lawn, head lolling heavy against his shoulder, trying to hold Jared's chest together and praying the ambulance arrives in time.

"Don't die," he whispers again, mouthing it into Jared's hair. "Don't die. Don't."

He could give a flying fuck about the case. He needs Jared alive, and it has nothing to do with the Grand Jury and everything to do with laughing green eyes and warm hands and a voice that calls him _Jen_.

Jensen drags Jared a little closer, holds him a little tighter, and prays.

 

* * *

 

**FBI FIELD OFFICE, DALLAS, TX  
TEN DAYS AGO **

"You can't be serious." Jensen stared across the desk, disbelief clear in his voice. "You want me to do _what_?"

"Don't give me that. You left me no choice," Assistant Director Ferris said, tapping her pen on the desk. "You're supposed to be on medical leave for another week. This will keep you out of trouble until you're ready to go back into the field."

"I'm _already_ ready to go back," Jensen argued. He spread his arms wide. "See? I'm here. I'm fine. Give me some real work to do, for Christ's sake. Don't saddle me with a babysitting gig. It's embarrassing."

"You'll do as you're goddamn told," Ferris snapped. "Unless you're too good for the job of protecting an innocent man, that is. That's not what you're saying, is it, Special Agent Ackles?"

"No, ma'am." Jensen sank back into his chair with a sigh. "Of course not. I just—"

He shut up before he could dig himself into an even deeper hole. Ferris stared at him narrowly for a second to make sure his mouth stayed shut. He mimed zipping his lip; message received.

"Good," she said. "Don't blame me for this, Jensen. If you'd stayed home like you were told, you wouldn't be stuck with this job in the first place. Think about that next time you wanna be macho."

"I was going stir-crazy at home. Nothing to do but stare at the walls."

"So you decided to come back early and drive the rest of us crazy instead? Great. Thank you so much."

"Misery loves company."

Ferris cracked a smile at that, and Jensen knew he was out of the woods. He stretched his legs out, careful of his newly-healed ribs, and took the file she handed across the desk.

"So what's the deal with this guy? Why does he need protecting?"

"He witnessed a mob hit in New York. High-profile case, a lot of media attention, nothing national but enough to make the state folks antsy. The DA's worried there might be a contract out on the kid's life, so we were asked to lend a hand with the protection detail."

"Kid?" Jensen leafed through the file and whistled when he saw the guy's photo. 'Kid' was right. "Jesus. What is he, twelve?"

"Twenty-four," Ferris corrected. "College student, late bloomer. He's majoring in dramatic literature at NYU. He was visiting friends in Newark, wound up in the wrong parking lot at the wrong time on his way back to the Village. Nice guy. You'll like him."

"I don't like anybody." Jensen stared at the photo a moment longer ( _when did they all start looking so fucking young?_ ) and closed the file with a snap. "How long?"

"A week. You'll fly into New York on Sunday, report to Assistant Director Morgan at the field office there. Sit on the guy until he testifies, and that's it."

"Boring." Jensen scowled.

"Exactly." Ferris smirked at him. "Now get the hell out of here. I got work to do."

"Yes, ma'am," he drawled, and took his time leaving just for the hell of it.

Back at his desk, Jensen went through the witness file from beginning to end. The case didn't ring a bell; mob hits were a dime a dozen in some places, and it wasn't his area anyway. His speciality was profiling, not organised crime. This case looked fairly cut and dried: family member got tapped, the witness agreed to testify, and needed his hand held until the Grand Jury was convened.

It was an easy job, and Jensen wasn't stupid enough to pretend he didn't need the rest (although he'd spit blood before he admitted it). He just hated feeling like a square peg in a round hole. Bodyguarding wasn't his thing. _People_ weren't his thing, unless they were reduced to habits and statistics and percentages on paper. And now he was going to be sharing close quarters with a babyfaced Shakespeare-quoting future professor for seven straight days. Perfect.

"Maybe I should've stayed home," Jensen muttered to himself. How bad could daytime television be, really?

He flipped back to the kid's photo again, staring hard at the dorky-looking dimples, messy hair and too-wide smile. The kid—Jared something, Padalecki, _Christ_ , what a name—stared back, eyes tilted and half-lidded without being sly. He looked kind of like a Great Dane, only human and without all the slobber.

Well, okay: so he was pretty. If Jensen had to be stuck in a room for a week with this guy, at least he'd have something to look at. He should thank heaven for small favours.

 

* * *

 

**FBI SAFE HOUSE, HOBOKEN, NJ  
SUNDAY**

Jared fucking Padalecki. Jensen disliked the guy on sight. That was his story, and he was damn well sticking to it.

Jared wasn't offensive or anything; just the opposite, in fact. His photo in the case file didn't do him justice. When Jensen walked into the safe house, duffle and garment bag in hand, and saw him lounging on the couch with Rosenbaum and Welling, he felt an impact that hadn't been there when he looked at Jared's face on paper. In the flesh, all ragged denim, faded college sweatshirt and awkward bare feet crossed at the ankle, Jared's sheer physical presence was like a slap to the face. Jensen's reaction was sharp, immediate, and shocking in its intensity.

_I want that._

Not exactly an ideal way to start the week.

Jensen's libido begged to differ. Jensen told it to shut the fuck up.

Jared was polite enough while Mike and Tom, the guys on the day shift, were introducing him. Jensen envied them. They had the advantage of being able to take a break now and then, even if it was just to step outside for a minute. Jensen worked alone; he didn't have that luxury. He'd be stuck in this house with this guy for twelve hours a night until Monday. Jensen sent another silent curse in AD Ferris's direction as he pasted a smile on his face and stuck out his hand. He'd find a way to get her back for this. April Fool's wasn't far away, and Jensen was very handy with duct tape.

"Pleased to meetcha," Jared said, and rolled up off the couch in one smooth motion. Jensen started a little at his touch; rough, calloused skin, not what he'd expected from a lit major. Jared's gaze flicked to their clasped hands and back up, catching Jensen's eye, and his friendly smile turned lazy.

"Mr Padalecki," Jensen said with a short nod, trying to pull away. Jared held on, squeezing his fingers ever so slightly.

"Special Agent ... Ackles, is it?" Jared asked, and Jensen nodded again. "I take it back. I'm _very_ pleased to meet you."

His voice was lazy too, inviting whispered endearments and sweet nothings breathed into secret places. Jared's tongue darted out to wet his lips, eyes travelling over Jensen from head to foot, and Jensen flushed. He yanked his hand away, ignoring Tom and Mike's stifled grins, and fought the urge to pull at his tie.

"I can take it from here," he said to them. "Your AD briefed me already."

"Okey-dokey," Mike drawled, eyebrows waggling. "We'll just get out of the way and leave you two to ... get acquainted."

"Shut up, Mike," Tom said, and shoved him toward the front door. Looking back at Jensen, he said, "Our shift starts at seven a.m. Call if you need anything; I wrote our numbers down next to the phone."

"Call Tommy, not me!" Mike amended, and winced when Tom smacked his head. "What? Some of us need our beauty sleep, you know. Not everyone can be as pretty as you on a moment's notice."

"You're an ass," Tom informed him as they left.

"Aw, you love me," was Mike's faint rejoinder.

The door closed behind them, deflating the buffer of their conversation. Jensen steeled himself and looked across the room. Jared hadn't moved an inch; he was still staring at Jensen, that maddening grin playing about his mouth.

"Special Agent Ackles," Jared said again, like he was testing it, his drawn-out vowels making the words seem twice as long. "You got a first name? Seems only friendly, if we're gonna be sharing bunk space for the week."

"Jensen," he replied shortly, shucking his overcoat. "But I'd rather keep things formal, if you don't mind." He tried to make it clear, without actually saying so, that he didn't care whether Jared minded or not.

Jared didn't seem fazed by his scowl. He pinned Jensen with a considering look, one hip thrust out, fingers tucked into his belt.

"Nah," he said, shaking his head decisively. "'Special Agent Ackles' makes you sound like some government-funded automaton with a regs manual shoved up your ass." Jared tilted his head, golden-brown hair falling into his eyes. "I'm gonna call you ... Jen."

"Nobody calls me that," Jensen said, before he could stop himself.

Jared smiled again, smoky-soft. "Good."

"The last guy who tried ended up in traction," Jensen said evenly. True, it hadn't technically been Jensen's doing—but he'd kicked the guy's ass _before_ he'd wrapped his car around a tree, so Jensen figured it counted. Sort of.

Jared raised his eyebrows. Lips pursed in an entirely too girly—and attractive—pout, he looked Jensen over again.

"Well then," he said at last, "he obviously didn't do it right."

Jensen opened his mouth to respond, but couldn't find any words that weren't profanities. The _nerve_ of this guy ... it was almost funny, really. Almost. And if Jensen hadn't already reached the end of his patience, he might almost be tempted to humour him.

"Look," he said, dropping into an armchair with a sigh. "Don't piss me off, okay? I've been travelling all day. I came here straight from the airport via the field office. I haven't even checked into my hotel. I'm tired, I'm hungry, I need a shower, and I can't be assed trading quips with you all goddamn night. I'd rather shoot you and deal with the paperwork."

He must have sounded as weary as he felt, because Jared backed down almost immediately, proving he wasn't innately an asshole. The tension in the room faded, and Jensen breathed a little easier.

"You wanna grab a shower?" Jared offered. "And get something to eat? There's stuff in the kitchen. Though you're gonna have to trust my sandwich-making skills, 'less you want to do it yourself." He smiled again, a dialed-back, friendly version. "Can't do anything about the sleep situation, but my coffee's not half bad."

Jensen only wrestled with himself for a few seconds. It was after seven-thirty, and he'd skipped lunch rather than risk airplane food. He was starving. And the thought of a hot shower was too much to resist.

"Yeah, okay," he agreed, running a hand over his face. "A sandwich would be good. Thanks."

"Awesome. You go shower." Jared waved a hand toward a doorway, and Jensen figured that would lead him to the bathroom. "I'll go make like Iron Chef."

Jensen shot him a sideways glance, but didn't allow himself to so much as twitch an eyebrow. Even on five minutes' acquaintance, the image of Jared in the middle of Kitchen Stadium was too fucking funny for words. He turned toward the doorway, feeling sweat prickling all down his back. There was one advantage to hauling his luggage everywhere today; he could at least get out of this damned suit before his tie choked him to death.

"Need a hand in the bathroom?" Jared asked. Jensen looked around and found him looking straight back, eyes wide and innocent. Only the curl of his mouth ruined the image, and Jensen snorted.

"I think I can manage," he said dryly. "Call me if there's a knock on the door. Do _not_ answer it yourself. Also, don't answer the phone, and stay away from the windows, you hear me?"

"Yessir," Jared replied, with a crisp military salute. Jensen stared hard at him for a second before grabbing his duffel and escaping down the hall.

This house had two bedrooms, a kitchen, a bathroom and the open plan living/dining area. It felt about as big as a postage stamp. Even with two walls and a locked door between them, Jensen could still feel Jared's eyes on him.

Oh, yeah. This week was going to be _impossible_. And then some.

 

* * *

 

He got through that first night by playing dumb. It was a mistake to change out of his suit; the minute he came out of the bathroom in jeans and a sweatshirt, Jared's eyes lit up, and he started treating Jensen like they were buddies about to shoot some hoops in the drive. The very idea made Jensen's skin crawl; he hated sports, and going outside at night with a federal witness would be like giving a sniper a really fucking early Christmas present. He didn't doubt there was a sniper out there; he didn't plan on letting whoever it was get a chance at Jared. No matter how annoying the guy was.

Eleven hours later, as he was waiting for Welling and Rosenbaum to show up and relieve him, Jensen was starting to re-evaluate that decision. Jared had stayed up all fucking night to 'keep him company', sitting close enough on the couch that Jensen had the outer seam of Jared's jeans imprinted all down his leg.

Okay, maybe that was an exaggeration, but it sure as hell didn't feel like one. Jared was one of those guys who seemed to take all the atmosphere in a room and made it his, so you couldn't help but breathe him in even if you didn't want to. Jensen told himself, watching surreptitiously as Jared laughed his head off at a Looney Tunes cartoon sometime around three a.m., that he didn't really want to.

Even that early on, he knew he was lying.

 

* * *

 

On Monday night, Jared stayed in his bedroom until after Mike and Tom left. Jensen ignored Mike's leer and Tom's sympathetic smile on their way out the door, preferring not to feed their speculation. He refused to admit to curiosity about what Jared might be doing in there.

Two minutes later Jared came out, dressed in a black Boss suit and white Van Heusen shirt, no tie, hair brushed carefully off his clean-shaven face. He looked like he was about to go out on a date. Or maybe ... hell, maybe stay _in_ on a date. Jensen, seated at the dining table with the _New York Times_ , took one look at him and turned quickly back to the crossword.

"Hey," Jared said, all warm tones and easygoing grin. "How's it goin'?"

"Fine," Jensen replied, staring hard at the newspaper. He definitely did not notice the way Jared's suit fit him perfectly across the shoulders, or the way the slim-cut trousers hugged his hips.

Jared pulled up a neighbouring chair and turned it around, straddling it backward. His left elbow bumped Jensen's right.

"Whatcha doing?"

"I'm sacrificing a virgin to Satan," Jensen said with exaggerated politeness. "What does it _look_ like I'm doing?"

"Wow, someone got out of the wrong side of the bed tonight." Jared jostled his arm again, grinning wider. "C'mon, man. You can do that crossword later. There's a _Melrose Place_ marathon on cable. Wanna order pizza and mock?"

Jensen strangled his urge to smile back—the last thing Jared needed was encouragement—but he put down his pen, because, well. _Melrose Place_ needed mocking, really. At least the later seasons. And if it would focus Jared's attention on something other than Jensen, it was worth having to actually _watch_ it.

"No anchovies," he said firmly, and Jared made a face.

"Ew. I am not a fan of tiny hairy fish. Olives okay?"

"Whatever." Against his better judgement, Jensen took off his suit jacket and loosened his tie. "And get some garlic bread."

"You have to order it, man." Jared tossed the phone to him. "Mike told me not to talk to anyone, even on the phone."

He had a point. Voices were as recognisable as faces; sometimes more so in the mob's line of business. Jensen shrugged and dialed a place Mike had recommended, trying to ignore the way Jared focused on his every word. Had to be hard, not talking to anyone but a few federal agents. Had to be even harder being trapped in this house, not even allowed to stand near a window in case he was seen.

"Stop staring at me," Jensen said.

"Why?"

"Because I don't like it."

"Liar." Jared flopped onto the couch and settled back against the arm, hands linked over his lap. "You love it."

"I—" Jensen started, then shook his head. "You know what? I don't care. Think what you like. Just keep it to yourself, okay?"

"Where's the fun in that?" Jared grinned at him. "I like watching you get all riled. It's hot."

"For God's sake." Jensen got up and went into the kitchen for a beer, ignoring the warm flush spreading over his body. "You need to get out more."

"Oh, I get out plenty," Jared drawled from right behind him.

Jensen, half-buried in the depths of the fridge, backed out in a hurry and turned around to see Jared leaning against the kitchen counter. He'd had a perfect view of Jensen's ass, and the grin on his face said he liked it.

"Then you need hosing down." Jensen pushed past him into the living room. "We watching TV, or am I going back to my crossword?"

"Right, right," Jared said, all but vaulting over the couch to find the remote. "Here we go. Watching TV, yes sir, like the good boy my mama calls me." He smiled wide and innocent, looking all of twelve years old.

Jensen snorted and sat in one corner of the couch, taking a swallow of beer—and promptly choked on it when the TV blared to life in a cacophony of bad nineties dance music and a scene of almost-naked upright porn. Gay porn, masquerading as a TV show.

He raised an eyebrow at Jared's gleeful expression.

"This is not Melrose Place."

"No, but it's just as pretty," Jared said, raising an eyebrow right back. "Prettier, even. It's Queer as Folk, Jen, also known as the best damn show on television. Watch and learn."

"If you say so." Jensen averted his gaze and started to get to his feet. "I'll be going back to my crossword now."

"Aw, come on, Jen. Don't be a spoilsport." Jared muted the TV and threw his leg up on the couch, pinning Jensen in his seat. "Why don't you relax a little?"

"Because I'm working," Jensen said, ignoring the heat sinking into his groin from Jared's foot. "Mob hit, witness protection, Grand Jury—any of this ringing a bell? I'm not here to have a good time, Jared. This isn't _The Bodyguard_. I am not Kevin Costner, and you sure as hell aren't Whitney fucking Houston."

"Thank Christ for that," Jared replied sotto voce, but left his leg right where it was. "I'm not suggesting we order a keg and hire a stripper, you know. Just—take your goddamn tie off, or something. Put your feet on the coffee table. Act like a human being instead of a FBI-bot."

Jensen pushed Jared's leg away and stood up. "I'm not being paid to be your buddy."

"Yeah, well, that's good, because if you were you'd be sucking at it." Jared sighed and threw his hands in the air. "Okay, fine. Be a fucking federal agent, then. Go do your crossword, or whatever. Forget I said anything."

Perversely, now that Jared had stopped nagging at him, Jensen actually wanted to watch the show. He could see it in his peripheral vision, and while it was unlikely to be anything other than popcorn fodder, it was ... kind of pretty.

He caught sight of a guy slamming another guy up against a bathroom stall, and attempting to climb down his throat.

Okay, maybe it was _really_ pretty.

"Ten minutes," he said grudgingly, and sat back down. "Just until the food gets here."

Jared crowed in triumph and swung his legs across Jensen's lap. "That's my boy!"

"I think I'm going to regret this," Jensen muttered, but he stayed put nonetheless.

 

* * *

 

On Tuesday night, after Mike and Tom left, Jared came out of the bathroom wearing a towel and a come-hither smile.

Jensen stared at him in total silence for a good ten seconds. Then he went to the dining table and sat there all night with his back to Jared, _The Giant Book of Sudoku_ open in front of him. He was good at puzzles. They were all about finding patterns and filling gaps. He did that for a living, after all.

Jared fell asleep around midnight, stretched out on the floor, towel clinging precariously to his hips and his face softened into boyhood. Jensen looked up when the sound of Jared's breathing changed, and watched him for a while. Then he looked back at the Sudoku book and slowly flipped it closed.

He hadn't even gotten the first square done.

 

* * *

 

On Wednesday night, they got philosophical. Or rather, Jared tried to get Jensen to sleep with him, and Jensen tried to appeal to Jared's sense of propriety. He should've realised sooner that when it came to sex, Jared didn't _have_ any propriety.

"Did you ever stop to think that maybe I just don't _like_ you?"

That shut Jared up—but only for a minute. The guy had an ego the size of Mount Rushmore and the constitution of a cockroach. Jensen watched as Jared thought it over, already knowing the outcome but weirdly appreciative of Jared's attempt to take him seriously.

"No," Jared said, right on cue. "I can tell when people don't like me, man. You like me just fine."

"You're the most annoying person I've ever met."

"Exactly." Jared grinned. "And yet, you haven't hit me or shot me or anything. Ergo, you like me."

"It's called being professional," Jensen said. "I think my superiors would notice if I delivered you to the courthouse with a bullet in you."

"Sugarcoat it all you want," Jared said blithely. "You think I'm fantastic."

"I think you're an ass."

"Keep telling yourself that, Jen. You might even start to believe it."

"Don't call me Jen."

"Sorry, Jenny."

"Shut up or I _will_ shoot you."

"Make me." Jared rolled a toothpick around in his mouth and grinned wide and slow. "C'mon, Jen. Make me behave myself. Show me what you got."

Jensen shoved down his impulse to do just that, buried his face in the newspaper and ignored Jared for the next hour and a half.

 

* * *

 

"Tell me about the shooting."

It was sometime around midnight; the witching hour, when the forces of darkness were at their peak and people did stupid things like starting conversations with other people they were supposed to be ignoring. Jared did look kind of surprised that he'd asked. Jensen half wanted to take it back, say it didn't matter, but that would just make him look worse.

"You must've read the file, or whatever," Jared said, one eyebrow going up.

"I want to hear it from you."

"Why?"

_Because I want to know if you're taking this seriously. Because I need to know just how much danger you're in. Because I like hearing you talk._

"Because the file reads like the back of a romance novel. Whoever wrote the report should get a job with the Hallmark Channel." Jensen shoved aside the _Times_ and capped his pen. "Come on. You need to run through it before Monday anyway, right?"

"I've gone over it with the DA so many times I could recite it in my sleep," Jared said, but he muted the TV and shifted on the couch, sitting tailor-fashion against the arm. "You want milk and cookies with this bedtime story?"

"Don't stall." Jensen went to the fridge, returning with a beer for each of them. Then he turned his chair around and straddled it, giving Jared his full attention. "There's your milk and cookies. Talk."

"It was kinda late," Jared began. "I'd been out at my buddy's house, shooting the breeze, catching up with some friends. My ex-girlfriend was there, and when I left she asked me for a ride home. I think she had plans for more than that, but I wasn't buying. Once bitten, et cetera."

Jensen nodded, already matching Jared's explanation with what he'd read in the file, trying to ignore the tantalising hints of Jared's personal life. "Go on."

"Alexis—that's my ex—she asked me up for coffee when I dropped her off, and I had to kinda dance around a little to get out of it without pissing her off. She's a friend of my sister's," Jared explained when Jensen tilted his head in query. "I'm trying to keep it friendly, but Alexis can't tell the difference between 'friendly' and 'marriage proposal', so sometimes I get kinda stuck."

"Good luck with that," Jensen said dryly.

"Yeah." Jared heaved a put-upon sigh, making Jensen cough to hide his grin. "Anyway, I left Alexis' place around one, one-thirty, and headed back to my place in the Village. Only I got a little turned around, on account of I don't go out that way often. Middle of the night, there wasn't anyone on the street to help with directions, so I pulled over into a parking lot near a bunch of warehouses and got out my phone to call my buddy."

He paused to take a swallow of beer, staring into the neck of the bottle as he went on. "I heard a car pull into the lot. It was one of those Lincolns, the ones you always see mobsters driving on TV. It was kinda surreal and funny—deserted area, dead of night, suspicious-looking car, you know—and I laughed a little bit. Until I saw the two guys get out of the car and open up the trunk."

Jensen flipped back through his mental copy of the file. Two men, both around six feet tall, dark hair, swarthy complexions in heavy dark topcoats. No identifying marks to speak of, but pretty decent composite sketches. He didn't know either of them, but he knew their type: henchmen, minions, lackeys, family muscle—it all meant the same thing. Jared was damn lucky they hadn't spotted him.

"They dragged a guy out of the trunk," Jared said flatly. "Like he was a side of beef or something. He was gagged and tied up pretty good, but he was still struggling. Looked like a nice guy, from what I could see. Hot, in a dark brooding kinda way. I know that doesn't mean much, but that's what I remember thinking."

It didn't mean much; Jeffrey Dahmer had been mild as milk, to hear his neighbours tell it, and Boreanaz hadn't been anything like a nice guy. But seeing the turned-down corners of Jared's mouth, Jensen kept quiet.

"There was a row of dumpsters at the edge of the lot, not far from their car." Jared's voice was very low. He was picking at the label on his beer bottle, staring at it like it held the secrets of the universe. "They pretty much carried him over there, and took out his knees with a baseball bat when he wouldn't kneel down. Just—wham, like it was nothing. I had the windows up, and he was gagged pretty tight, but I could still hear him scream. And then ..." He looked up, meeting Jensen's eyes with a confused look. "One of them pulled out a gun and shot him. Pushed his head down and put two bullets in the back of his head." He swallowed hard. "Is that—they call that 'execution-style', right?"

Jensen gripped his own beer tightly, as self-defence against the look in Jared's eyes.

"Yeah," he said, clearing his throat. "They do." There were a number of different ways to kill someone and have it labeled an execution, but he wasn't going to get into it now.

"Right." Jared looked past him at the wall, nodding to himself as if he needed to remember it. "Or 'gangland'. I read that somewhere."

"Listen," Jensen began, "if you don't want to go on—"

"No, it's okay." Jared looked at him with a brief smile. "I was just ... remembering. I've—I'd never seen anyone killed before. It gets stuck in your head sometimes."

It was more like all the time, Jensen knew, but he just nodded.

"That was pretty much it, anyway," Jared said, sitting up straighter. "They put the body in one of the dumpsters and got back in the car. I was hiding down in the footwell by then, so I just waited till they drove off, called the cops and gave them the licence plate. Stayed in the car till New York's finest came out to the scene, and ... here we are."

He smiled again, toasting Jensen with his beer before tilting it back and draining the rest of the bottle. Jensen took a swallow of his own in reflex, but he barely tasted it. He was too busy rearranging his impression of Jared.

"It's March now," he said. "The murder happened just after New Year's. How long have you been in custody?"

"Since it happened," Jared replied with a shrug. "Been imposing on Uncle Sam's hospitality for nine weeks now."

He sounded nonchalant, but Jensen was rapidly coming to understand that Jared hid a wealth of feeling behind a casual exterior. The lack of emotion in his voice when he'd recounted Boreanaz's shooting indicated he felt pretty strongly about it; looking at the lines of strain around his mouth, Jensen was pretty sure that Jared wasn't laughing on the inside.

The realisation that there was more to Jared than the annoyingly hot college-boy exterior made Jensen feel uncomfortably ashamed of himself. He was supposed to be a good judge of character, damn it; that was his _job_ , to pin people down and take them apart, find out what made them tick. The fact that he hadn't even tried to look beyond Jared's appearance was a measure of just how rattled Jensen was.

"You're missing school," he realised, and winced when Jared's mouth drew down at the corners again. "Has anyone offered to keep you up to date with your classes?"

"Not much point, is there? I've already missed half the semester. Besides, I'd just have to start over in witness protection anyway." Jared shrugged again. "Don't worry about it. I'll figure something out."

Jensen wanted to push it, to get Jared to agree to pursue the issue, but the slump to his shoulders spoke of weariness, so Jensen let it go. He stood up and collected Jared's empty bottle, taking it with his own into the kitchen and bringing back two fresh beers for them.

"I don't know if anyone's said this to you yet," he said awkwardly, sitting down beside Jared on the sofa and handing him a bottle. "But just in case they haven't—thank you. You're putting your whole life on hold, and it means a lot."

"Not much else I can do," Jared said. "Not if I want to get to sleep at night and look at myself in the mirror every morning." He grinned a little and tapped Jensen's beer with his own. "But you're welcome." His grin widened, and he looked at Jensen slyly. "You're welcome to just about anything you want, as a matter of fact."

Jensen rolled his eyes and reached for the TV remote, ignoring the flare of heat in his belly. But later on, when they were in the middle of watching Battlestar Galactica on the Sci-Fi Channel and Jared leaned against his shoulder, Jensen didn't move away.

 

* * *

 

Thursday night was hell on earth. Or heaven. Afterward, Jensen couldn't decide which.

"It's okay to admit it, you know." Jared's voice washed over him, warm and low. Tempting. It was early morning; the sky was starting to lighten outside, colour seeping into the shadows of the room.

Jensen kept his eyes fixed on his laptop screen. He'd brought it along to serve as a distraction, and it was failing magnificently. Minesweeper just didn't stack up against the sight of Jared lying shirtless on the couch, legs crossed at the ankle and arms tucked behind his head. He hadn't looked away from Jensen's face for at least half an hour.

He'd wait it out. Jared was low on patience; he'd get bored of this game soon and go to bed, or try to find some other way to get under Jensen's skin. That would fail too, whatever it was, and Jensen would get to the end of the night and cross another mark off this week from hell.

"Wow. You really are neck-deep in denial, huh." Jared sat upright, folding his legs tailor-fashion. "It won't work, Jen. You can ignore me all you want. I'm never gonna get tired of looking at you."

That made Jensen pause; for a split second he felt the full impact of Jared's gaze, steady and open. He looked up for the briefest instant, glancing off the heat in Jared's eyes, before reining himself in with a stifled curse. Answering warmth began to curl in his belly that couldn't be blamed on too much garlic on his pizza. Jensen hunched a little more over the table, teeth gritted tight.

"I saw that." Jared leaned back again, weight on his elbows, knees splayed wide. "You want me. Damn it, Jen, why're you fighting this?"

"I told you not to call me that," Jensen growled, eyes fixed on the keyboard even though his hands weren't moving.

"Aw, c'mon. What's a little nickname between ... friends?" He didn't have to look up to see it; the leer was right there in the words, loud and clear. "You can call me Jay if you want to, most everybody does—"

"Jared." Jensen closed the laptop and fixed his eyes on a spot over Jared's left shoulder. "How many times do I have to say this? We are not friends. We're not going to _be_ friends. I'm doing my job, which is to keep you alive until Monday morning. That's all."

"That is _not_ all. Not by a long shot. And you fucking know it."

Jensen blinked at Jared's tone. Gone was the good ol' boy drawl, the teasing and flirting; his words were edged with frustration like broken glass smashed on the edge of a bar. He caught Jared's gaze and held it, heart thudding in his chest.

"Shut up," he said. "Shut your mouth _right now_ , Jared."

"No." Jared's entire body was a challenge, from his open stare to his quick-rising cock, denim stretched taut between his thighs. "I won't, Jen. You wanna shut me up, best come over here and make me, 'cause that's the only way you'll get any peace. Only way either of us will." His gaze raked hot and slow over Jensen's face, one hand pressing down into his crotch, hissing quietly. "Fuck, your _mouth_ —"

Jensen snapped his mouth closed and looked away, but it was too late. The image was already burned into his memory: Jared's eyes half-closed as he fondled himself, sharp-eyed gaze fixed on Jensen's mouth. Heat washed into his face and his own cock went damnably, traitorously hard. He tried to shift, to relieve the pressure; Jared's breathing changed, shallow and quick in the sudden silence.

"You're hard for me." It wasn't a question. "You're hard right now, wanting me as much as I want you. God, Jensen, why won't you just _do_ it? Just let me, it'll be good, I'll be so good you'll never want me to stop, I _swear_ —"

"Shut up," Jensen rasped, closing his eyes. "Shut up, shut up, _shut up_ ..."

"Just come over here and fuck me," Jared whispered—

—and Jensen was on his feet. Enough, that was fucking _enough_ ... two long strides to the couch and he was dragging Jared to the floor, looming over him on all fours as he grabbed handfuls of that insane hair and pulled him in.

"You talk too much," he breathed into Jared's mouth. Then he kissed him, hard and possessive, and Jared's hands came up to grip him tight enough to bruise.

Jared met him halfway, sucking Jensen's tongue into his mouth, moaning around it as he scrabbled to get Jensen's shirt out of his trousers. Hard hands slid up his back under staid businesslike cotton, mapping skin and muscle, every touch feeling like a brand. Jensen closed his eyes and licked even deeper into Jared's mouth, sank down to press his hips into the vee of Jared's thighs. Denim chafed and caught on twill, sliding rough together and Jared's knees gripped him tight. They struggled for control of the kiss, harsh pants escaping as they bit and sucked at each other, Jensen's hands clenched in Jared's hair, Jared's roaming desperate over his back and sides and ass.

Jensen wrenched his mouth away, dizzy with lack of air. He tried to pull back, give himself room to think, but Jared wasn't letting go; knees and hands kept him locked in place, and Jared was kissing under his jaw, down his neck and trying to draw Jensen's tie loose with his teeth.

"Stop," Jensen gasped, angling away. "Jared, no, we have to—"

" _Fuck_ that," Jared breathed into his ear, "not stopping now, Jen, I'm barely gettin' started with you." He sucked hard on the skin under Jensen's earlobe, licked down his neck and nosed along the loosened line of his collar. ""M gonna strip you naked and touch every inch of you, fuck myself raw on _this_ —" his hand slid around quick to cover Jensen's cock, "—then I'ma tongue your ass till you beg me to let you come."

Images exploded behind Jensen's eyes, all of Jared's words and more, the two of them tangled in a mess of sheets with arms and legs wrapped up so close they couldn't tell who was who. He dropped his head onto Jared's shoulder, rolling his forehead across hard muscle while Jared made short work of his tie. His cock throbbed heavy and full between his legs, hips moving in little thrusts despite himself.

"This is stupid," he whispered. "So fucking stupid." But Jared was open and wanting beneath him, Jensen's cock nestled snug under Jared's balls, and despite his brain telling him to _get the hell up, you weak bastard_ he couldn't do it. He couldn't move away.

Jared made a sound deep in his throat, almost a growl; next thing Jensen knew he was flat on his back, Jared astride his hips, nimble fingers opening shirt buttons and pushing material aside, pink-flushed and staring.

"Knew you'd be perfect," Jared murmured, ghosting a hand over Jensen's chest. "All those boring suits and ties, done up too tight to breathe, and this hiding underneath." He dipped down and kissed the centre of Jensen's chest, nipped at his collarbone. "All mine now, Jensen. Right?"

"I—" Jensen started, but Jared's hand on his belt buckle stole his breath and the memory of words. He could only jerk and nod wordlessly, hands moving restless on Jared's hips as Jared slid his zipper down.

"So pretty," Jared breathed into his mouth, not quite kissing him. Jensen bristled; he wasn't some teenaged girl needing to be coddled and praised, for God's sake, but then Jared had a hand on his cock and all of Jensen's pent-up breath escaped him in a rush. He arched up without thinking, pushing into Jared's tight grip, and bit down hard on his lip to keep quiet when Jared squeezed.

"Don't do that," Jared murmured, tongue flicking out to taste. "I wanna hear you, Jen. Wanna know you're havin' a good time. Make some noise for me, hm?"

"Fuck you," Jensen shot back with effort. He dragged Jared's shirt off, nails digging into miles of smooth warm skin. "I'm not the one with the big mouth here."

"That a hint?" Jared grinned, eyes smoky-dark, and started to slide down Jensen's body. "Or a challenge?"

"Take your pick," Jensen growled. "Just stop fucking _talking_ about it."

He put a hand on Jared's head and pushed, not gently, daring him to object. Jared didn't object; instead he growled back and bit Jensen's hipbone on his way down. Then he was shoving Jensen's thighs wide to make room for his shoulders, and his hands were under Jensen's ass lifting him up, and his _mouth_ ...

Some indeterminate time later, Jensen became aware that he was moaning, and his hands were clenched tight in Jared's hair. Jared was grinning, the fucker—he could feel teeth against delicate skin—but then Jared's tongue came out to stroke and flick and plunge deep, and Jensen forgot to be pissed. He arched up higher, his ass lifting out of Jared's hands, thighs flexing and straining as he tried to get even closer. He yanked hard on Jared's hair, voicing an inarticulate sound, and reached down with his free hand to stroke his aching cock.

Jared's hand connected with his; without pausing, he twined their fingers together and moved Jensen's hand away, squeezing in silent reassurance. Jensen opened his mouth to plea or bitch or demand, he didn't know which, but he only got as far as a broken-off, "Jared—" when his phone began to ring.

Jared gripped him tighter. "Don't answer it," he muttered into Jensen's groin.

"Work phone," Jensen panted. "Have to." He scrambled free and reached for the phone, cursing as the lust-haze began to fade. What the hell was he _doing_?

"Ackles."

"It's Welling, just checking in. We're running late, but everything's fine. We'll be there in a few minutes. You want coffee or anything?"

"No." Jensen ground his teeth on the word and checked his watch. It was almost seven-thirty, and he hadn't even noticed.

"Okay. See you soon."

Jensen tossed the phone on the bed and scrubbed a hand over his face. His cock was still twitching, desperate for relief; his conscience, however, was back in control.

"So, uh." Jared sounded hopeful, but hesitant. "Where were we?"

"Getting dressed. Welling and Rosenbaum will be here in a minute." Jensen gathered up his clothes and began to dress, not looking at Jared.

He heard Jared's soft, "Damn it," but didn't let himself react. There was no point. In three more days Jared would be out of his hands for good, and Jensen could fly back to Dallas and get on with real life.

They got dressed in silence. Jensen went into the bathroom to wash his face; when he came back out, he was confronted with the sight of Jared lounging shirtless on the couch, sweat pants riding low on his hips, idly channel surfing for porn. Jared saw him looking and shrugged, indicating his very obvious hard-on with a sheepish grin.

"Gotta explain it somehow," he said, and Jensen felt a moment of warmth that Jared was willing to cover for them both.

There was a knock on the door. Jensen sidled up to the jamb and drew his weapon without making a sound. Jared slid off the couch to the floor at his nod.

"Who is it?" Jensen asked.

"Birthday strip-o-gram," came Rosenbaum's annoyed answer. "Hurry up and open the goddamn door, will you?"

Jensen holstered his gun and opened the door. Rosenbaum barged in, arms full of coffee trays and bags of donuts. Welling trailed in behind him, rolling his eyes.

"He's having a caffeine freakout day," he said by way of greeting. "Three macchiatos and it's not even eight yet."

"It's barely seven-thirty." Jensen checked his watch, then looked at the tray Mike was unloading. "Why are there seven coffees on that tray?"

"One for each of us, and four for Mike," Welling explained with a shudder. "It's going to be a fun day."

"I'll leave you to it, then." Jensen bypassed the coffee altogether—his contribution to the cause of driving Jared crazy whenever possible—and slid into his suit jacket on his way to the door. "See y'all later."

"Same bat-time, same bat-channel," Jared quipped, sounding completely disinterested.

Jensen chanced a look at him; Jared was working his way through the gay porn now. He stopped on a scene of particularly inventive rimming and shot Jensen a thoughtful look.

"See you tonight, Jen."

Technically, Jensen didn't run down the drive. But he was out of breath when he got to his car just the same.


	2. Chapter 2

  
Three hours later, Jensen was still awake, growing more frustrated by the minute. He was accustomed to sudden changes in his sleeping patterns, and usually had no trouble falling asleep. Today, however, he was reduced to counting sheep and yoga breathing, and even those weren't working. Maybe he ought to have a drink; but it felt too decadent to break open the Jack at ten-thirty in the morning, never mind that it felt like midnight to him. Jensen punched his pillow and flopped over onto his back, staring up at the ceiling. At least the room was dark, thanks to the hotel having decent light-blocking drapes. And the heater was working. He'd had to sleep in much worse conditions than these.

So why couldn't he do it now?

Jensen knew the answer, of course. He wasn't stupid. But he wasn't going to admit it, either; denial was comfortable, and he only had to survive another three days. If he lost a little sleep in the meantime, so be it.

His phone chirruped softly, announcing a new text message. Jensen debated ignoring it—he was off duty—but his curiosity got the better of him. With a sigh, he rolled over and flipped the phone open.

_Miss me yet?_

Jensen didn't recognise the number, but he knew who it was. Jared must have wormed his cell number out of Mike.

 _Fuck you_ , he sent back.

_Anytime, stud muffin. Just say the word._

Jensen choked back a groan as his mind began to supply him with images of Jared offering himself up for Jensen's delectation. Jared sprawled lazily along the length of the couch, one hand disappearing into his unbuttoned jeans; Jared sitting on the kitchen counter, thighs spread wide, drawing Jensen between them with a beckoning finger and a devilish grin; Jared naked in the shower, water spilling over long, muscled limbs and tracing paths through softwet body hair for Jensen to follow with his tongue.

Jared flat on his back in Jensen's bed, begging Jensen with eyes and mouth and hands to fuck him senseless, fuck him blind, fuck him hard and long and relentless until neither of them could walk.

Jensen let out a despairing growl and dropped the phone, reaching for his cock half in anger. He could picture the triumphant grin on Jared's face, if he were to see Jensen now; it made him furious even as it got him hard. Three quick strokes, and he was already halfway there, and that pissed him off so much he could scream. He kept his grip tight, almost brutal, and tried not to think about what he was doing. Or why. Most especially _why_. He hadn't been laid in a while, that was all. It had nothing to do with Jared, or sidelong grins or provocative looks or a body that went on forever. Jared was just a convenient outlet, that was all.

Jensen imagined Jared's hands on him, sliding warm and sure down his chest, feather-light over hips and thighs, covering his own hand on his cock. He swiped his thumb over the head, slowing his strokes, spreading his fingers wider to tease like Jared would. Jensen closed his eyes and imagined Jared's body hovering above, breath stirring his hair, their legs tangling lazily together. He thought about gripping Jared's hair and pulling his head back, exposing that long beautiful neck for Jensen to bite. He thought about leaving a trail of love bites all over Jared's body: the inside of his elbow; the small of his back; the point of his hip. His hand tightened on his cock, dragging a groan out of him, and the Jared in his fantasy gave him a knowing grin.

The shrill ring of his cell phone shattered the fantasy, bringing Jensen crashing back to reality. He fumbled to reach it before it went to voicemail, clumsy and slow.

"Yeah?" he managed.

"You all right there, Jen? You sound all hot and bothered," Jared murmured over the line. "Are you thinkin' about me?"

Jensen didn't answer. But his hand went straight back to his cock at the sound of Jared's voice, and he didn't even try to stop it. A little sound escaped him on the first stroke, a bare gasp of breath he couldn't catch in time; he knew Jared heard it, and his face burned even as he spread his legs wider for a better grip.

"You— _Jensen_ ," Jared breathed, his voice low and hot. "Are you jerking off? Are you touching yourself, wishing it was me?"

Jensen bit his tongue and stayed silent, his hand moving slick and slow.

"You are, aren't you." It wasn't a question. "You're lying there wishing it was my hand on your cock, my tongue in your mouth, my cock in your ass. God, Jensen." Jared inhaled sharply, and Jensen shuddered. "Talk to me while you do it. Tell me what you like."

Jensen arched up, fucking his hand, teeth clenched hard to keep from moaning. He couldn't bring himself to hang up, but he'd be damned before he'd play Jared's game. He breathed harshly into the phone, heard Jared's strangled groan in response.

"All right. Don't talk. I can do that enough for both of us." Jared's voice changed again, went silky in Jensen's ear. "Know what I wanna do to you, Jen? I wanna lay you out on my bed and touch you all over. Put my hands on every bit of you, till I'd know you blind. Maybe tie you up, so you couldn't move. Would you like that? I'd fucking love it, Jen, God. 'M already hard just thinkin' about it."

There was a soft rustling sound, and Jensen's mind supplied the images to go with it: Jared pushing his sweat pants down, licking his palm, wrapping his hand around his cock. He heard a little grunt, and his own breath hitched in response.

"This ain't gonna last long." Jared was already panting, making no effort to hide what he was doing. "Been hard for you for too damn long. C'mon, Jen, say something. I wanna hear you. You were so hot before, those little groans and whimpers got me so riled ... I wanna hear that again. I've got a hand on my dick, wishing it was you, and I gotta ... you gotta give me something, Jensen, please?"

Jared's voice broke at the end; Jensen bit down so hard on his lip he tasted blood, but he didn't make a sound. He held his breath and stripped his hand hard and fast over his cock, almost forcing his orgasm, desperate to get it done and try to forget it ever happened. He could hear Jared dimly as his balls went tight and his legs went weak, low moans and disjointed phrases in a quiet, heated voice, but he kept his mouth closed. It seemed to last for days, weeks, eons, but eventually he sank back onto the mattress in a sweaty sprawl, breathless and messy and already hating himself for giving in.

"God damn you, Jared," he whispered hoarsely into the phone, and heard Jared make a choked noise in reply. "Fucking _asshole_. Why couldn't you leave me alone?"

"Because you don't want me to," Jared gasped, " _fuck_ , Jensen, I'm gonna—"

He hung up before Jared got any further, and spent the rest of the day staring up at the ceiling with burning eyes.

 

* * *

 

On Friday evening, while he was en route to the safe house, Jensen got a call from AD Morgan.

"How's it going?" Morgan said, his gruff voice resonating over the line. "Any problems, any suspicious activity? I get the daily reports, but it's always good to check in firsthand."

"No, sir." Jensen had pulled over to the side of the road, not trusting his skills against the brutal New York traffic. He kept his voice bland and businesslike. "Everything's fine."

"Good, good. Glad to hear it. We're very focused on getting our young friend through this experience in one piece." Morgan's voice changed, gained a somewhat sharper edge. "You should devote all your energies to making sure he's well protected. That's your only priority, Special Agent Ackles. Mind on the job, you hear?"

"Yes, sir. I hear you." Jensen spoke very carefully. "Loud and clear."

"Excellent. Right, well—keep up the good work, son."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."

Jensen slumped back in his seat, thumping the phone against his forehead. _Stupid. Stupid. Stupid_. Of course Morgan knew what was going on—or thought he knew, anyway. Mike and Tom weren't stupid; they only had to see the way Jared looked at him to figure out something was going on. Of course they'd tell AD Morgan about it. It was his case, and he wouldn't want anything to screw it up. And his only witness fucking his federally-funded bodyguard definitely fell into that category. It might even take the crown.

"Fuck," Jensen whispered, staring blindly out the windscreen. "You stupid fucking _moron_. You know better."

This had to stop. Right now. His job might well depend on it; the case ... hell, Jared's _life_ might depend on it. If Jensen was distracted by thoughts of Jared at the wrong time, Jared could end up dead. He didn't want that on his conscience.

 

* * *

 

"He's been asleep all day," Tom said when Jensen arrived promptly at seven. "Went to bed right after we got here, said he wanted to rest up for the main event. What the hell'd you get up to last night?"

"I did the _Times_ crossword. He was annoying. He's turning it into an art form." Jensen took off his coat and raised a brow at Welling. "He doesn't piss you off every minute of the day?"

"Nope. Seems like a nice guy. Never gives us any trouble, except when he's beating Mike's ass all around the table at poker." Welling tilted his head. "Must be something special about you."

"I'll bet," Jensen muttered, ignoring Welling's grin.

In the bedroom, he nudged Jared's shoulder. "Up."

Jared snorted awake with a grimace that was idiotic, _not_ adorable, thank you very fucking much. His smile when he saw Jensen, though: that was pure sap. Jensen told himself he hated that too.

"Hey," Jared said in a gravely voice. "G'morning, gorgeous."

"Up," Jensen repeated, avoiding Jared's outstretched hand. "Mike and Tom are gone, and that means you're sitting somewhere I can keep an eye on you. If someone takes a shot at you, I want to be there to see it."

Jared's delighted yell of, "You love me, Jenny!" followed him into the hall. Jensen clenched his jaw against the urge to grin and went to order Chinese for dinner—or breakfast, rather. He couldn't be drawn into that easy banter again—one lapse was more than enough.

"You look good," Jared said from behind him a minute later. Jensen was in the kitchen making coffee; when he turned around, Jared was leaning against the counter, watching him with a soft smile. He reached for Jensen's hand and tugged on it, trying to draw him closer. "I dreamed about you."

"You should get an early night," Jensen said, twisting gently out of Jared's grip. "Your sleeping pattern's all screwed up, and you need to be ready for Monday."

He took his coffee over to the dining table and sat down, pulling a case file out of his briefcase. Jared watched him for a minute with a bemused look on his face, head tilted to one side like Jensen was a particularly intriguing puzzle. Jensen kept his eyes on the documents in front of him, but he could feel Jared's eyes like a physical touch. After a moment Jared went to the fridge, returning with a soda.

"What are you reading?" Jared asked, leaning his hip against Jensen's shoulder at the table. Jensen closed the file and leaned away from Jared's touch.

"It's confidential."

"Oh." Jared nudged the file with one finger. "Well, can it wait till later? I kinda need to talk to you."

"If it's something about the case, you should speak to AD Morgan," Jensen said, not looking up. "And if it isn't, then we don't need to talk at all."

He stood up, forcing Jared to move away. Jensen crossed the room and stopped on the other side of the couch, using it as a barrier.

"What's wrong?" Jared stared at him, teeth worrying at his bottom lip. "Jensen, you're freaking me out. What's going on?"

"Nothing." Jensen looked at the spot between Jared's eyebrows. "I'm just trying to stay focused on my job, that's all."

"Your job." Jared's mouth twisted briefly. "What, don't I fit into the job description?"

"That's right. You don't." Jensen made sure he sounded indifferent. "Things got out of hand yesterday. That can't happen again."

Jared looked him over from head to foot in that slow, assessing way he had. The first time he'd done it, Jensen had wanted to strangle him. Now he fought to stand still and pretend disinterest, when all he wanted to do was leap over the couch and slam Jared up against the wall. It was amazing the difference five days could make.

Jared caught Jensen's gaze and held it for a long moment, eyes narrowed. Jensen held his breath. He didn't know whether to hope that Jared called bullshit or not.

"Okay," Jared said at last, sounding as flat as Jensen suddenly felt. "Whatever. You wanna play it that way, fine."

He walked over to the couch and sat down, ignoring Jensen as if he weren't there. Jensen retreated to the dining table; the TV blared to life, loud and grating music on VH1 setting his teeth on edge as he paged uselessly through the case file and stared at the back of Jared's head.

Around eleven, Jared clicked off the TV and stood up.

"I'm going to bed," he said tonelessly.

Jensen followed him down the hall and checked that his bedroom was secure. Previously, Jared would be making jokes about boogeymen in the closet, trying to get Jensen to "check between the sheets, dude, you never know where the mob might be hiding". Tonight he just stood in the doorway and waited for Jensen to leave.

"Good night," Jensen said, brushing past Jared to get out of the room. His shoulder tingled where it touched Jared's chest, and he suppressed the urge to rub it.

"Jensen ..." Jared began, but then visibly reined himself in. "Good night."

He stared at Jensen for an endless moment, looking lost and confused and hungry all at once. Then he gently shut the door, leaving Jensen staring at blank wood, one hand half-raised to stop him.

"Idiot," Jensen muttered. "Fucking moron. Get a fucking grip."

But it was another five minutes before he could collect himself enough to move away from the door.

 

* * *

 

Jensen called in sick on Saturday.

He felt like ten kinds of coward for doing it, and he could tell AD Morgan didn't believe him for a second when he blamed it on some bad sushi. He didn't care; he needed the reprieve to get his head on straight. Jensen spent the day in his pyjamas, watching old movies on cable and ignoring all of Jared's text messages. They came in every half hour just like clockwork, and he deleted them all unread. It was childish and passive aggressive as hell, but it was either that or give in completely, and Jensen couldn't—wouldn't—do that. He repeated to himself all the reasons why it would be a bad idea to get involved with Jared, until it became a litany beating in his brain, and ignored the hollow sound it left in his heart.

Jared was a witness in a federal murder case. He was going into witness protection, where he'd be expected to disclaim all of his former friends and acquaintances. He was annoying, immature and provocative to the point of violence. Jensen would lose his job if they got involved. Jared would end up dead if Jensen got distracted.

None of it meant anything when he turned up for duty on Sunday night and saw Jared's face again.

Jared kept his distance, leading Mike to raise a curious eyebrow and whisper, "Trouble in paradise?" in Jensen's ear as he and Tom left. Jensen pretended not to hear, and took up his habitual spot at the table while Jared sat on the couch with a book.

"So tell me something," Jared said after about an hour of mutual silent treatment. He looked at Jensen, gaze cool and sharp. "Have you always been this much of a chickenshit asshole, or is it a new development?"

"Don't start, Jared." Jensen sighed. "I don't want to argue."

"Well, that's a damn shame, because we're going to." Jared slammed his book down on the coffee table. "I want to know what the hell is going through that head of yours."

"Look." Jensen scrubbed a hand through his hair in frustration. "I don't know what you were expecting, but this isn't going to work. Not like this. We're not in some utopian pastoral scene in a fucking Shakespearian sonnet or whatever. This is reality, and it sucks. I've already had an unofficial reprimand. If we do this and we get found out, we are screwed. My career is screwed because I can't keep my hands to myself, the case is screwed because your testimony is tainted, and if that happens you can kiss witness protection goodbye. I won't risk your life just so we can fuck, okay? I won't."

Jared stood up, towering at his full height where normally he slouched a little, fitting himself to Jensen. He didn't fit now. He looked all edges and angles, like he'd cut if Jensen got too close.

"Don't fucking patronise me," Jared bit out. He shoved a finger in Jensen's face. "I understand the fucking risks, okay? I get it. Believe it or not, I didn't get into this thing without thinking about it first. I'm not saying we need to march in a goddamn parade or put a rainbow decal in the living room window. I'm just saying I don't wanna let this go without giving it a shot."

"There's nothing here, Jared," Jensen said. He looked Jared straight in the eye as he said it, and hoped it sounded true. "I'm sorry, but there just isn't. There wouldn't be any point."

Jared stared at him, his eyes losing their diamond-hard sheen, shoulders rounding down. Jensen shrugged a little and leaned back in his chair.

"Get some sleep," he said. "You need to be up early tomorrow."

Jared looked away and nodded silently, turning back to the couch to get his book. Jensen caught a glance at the cover: Walt Whitman's _Leaves of Grass_. So, not a Shakespearian sonnet anyway, then. He didn't know why that made him feel worse, but it did.

He checked Jared's room as quickly and quietly as he could. Jared was careful not to come within arm's reach of him this time, and Jensen was glad of it. He wasn't sure he could control himself if Jared were to come that close. He allowed himself one backward glance at the firmly closed door, then retreated down the hall to the living room, cold and silent without Jared there.

It was for the best, he told himself. He'd be leaving in the morning anyway, once Jared was in the courthouse. He didn't want any entanglements.

"Congratulations. You're an asshole," Jensen said to his reflection in the microwave when he went to refill his coffee. "Go to hell. Go directly to hell. Do not pass Go, do not collect two hundred dollars."

Knowing it wasn't true didn't make him feel any better. Jensen avoided his reflection after that, and drank bitter coffee until the sun came up.

 

* * *

 

Monday dawned bright and disgustingly warm for late March. Jensen scowled at the rising sun and went into the kitchen to make more coffee. He was going to have to stay up all day to get his body clock back in its proper order, and that meant endless cups of sludge, starting now.

Jared shuffled down the hallway half an hour later, all sleep-warmed limbs and bedhead. Jensen carefully didn't look at him.

"Coffee's fresh," he said neutrally. "The car will be here in an hour to take us to the courthouse."

Jared grunted at him and went into the kitchen, reappearing with a cup. He collapsed onto the couch with it, staring into the black depths of the liquid as though it held the secrets to the universe. Jensen turned his own cup between his hands and tried not to watch Jared.

"You're coming to the courthouse?" Jared said a moment later, looking slightly more awake with some coffee in him. Jensen nodded, and something in Jared's shoulders relaxed. "Okay. Um, I'm gonna go shower."

Jensen waved a hand in acknowledgement and kept his eyes trained on the morning newspaper. He was aching with the need to follow Jared into the bathroom, push him into the shower and swallow his cock until he choked on it. Somehow he managed to stay put, jaw clenched tight, feeling so wound up he jumped when he heard a car go past on the street.

He moved around Jared like he was a ticking bomb when Jared came out of the bathroom. The Boss suit was back, complete with sober green tie, making Jared look older and more respectable than Jensen had ever seen him. His fingers itched to mess up that perfectly arranged hair, loosen the tie, ruck up that pristine shirt and make Jared look as debauched as possible. Instead, Jensen dug his fingernails into his palms and counted the minutes until Tom and Mike arrived.

"Last chance," Jared said suddenly, and Jensen whipped around to look at him. Jared wore a crooked grin, a hopeful look in his eyes. "I've always been good at last minute quickies."

" _No_ ," Jensen snarled, appalled at how close he was to taking Jared up on it. "Jesus Christ, Jared, will you just let it fucking go?"

He didn't mean to sound so angry; it was frustration talking, nothing more. But he couldn't tell that to Jared, and that just made it all worse. He saw Jared's face crumple for a split second before it smoothed out into an expressionless mask.

"Sorry," Jared murmured. He stayed on the other side of the room, arms wrapped around his waist, and Jensen wanted to kick himself.

The car arrived a few minutes later. Jensen waited till the driver got out and opened the rear door; then he motioned Jared over and opened the front door, giving the driver a nod.

"Stay close behind me," he told Jared. "Straight down the path and into the car. Understand?"

"Yes," Jared said quietly. Jensen pulled his Sig Sauer P-226 and flicked off the safety, taking a deep breath.

"Here we go."

Everything was fine until they reached the car. Jensen turned around to get Jared into the back seat; Jared reeled back when Jensen reached for him, and for an instant—no longer—he was standing in full view of the street, completely unprotected.

Jensen heard the shots before he saw them hit. He didn't think Jared heard them at all. _You never hear the one that kills you_ —wasn't that how the saying went?

 

* * *

 

**NYU DOWNTOWN HOSPITAL, NEW YORK, NY  
NOW **

Jared's already in surgery by the time Jensen reaches the hospital. He cools his heels in the waiting room, drinking cup after cup of watered down instant coffee and pacing. He pays no attention to the other people in the room; they're all in their own private waiting hells anyway. They don't even know he's there.

His cell keeps buzzing in his pocket. Calls, text messages, voicemail. Jensen switches it off without checking any of them.

Some indeterminate time later—enough for Jensen's hands to start shaking from all the caffeine—a weary-looking blond man in green scrubs appears in the doorway and looks around.

"Jared Padalecki," he calls out, and Jensen's halfway across the room before the second syllable hits the air.

"Special Agent Ackles, FBI," he says, trying for calm. "What can you tell me?"

"I'd prefer to wait until his family gets here," the guy says, but Jensen shakes his head.

"They're not flying in from San Antonio until this afternoon. I can fill them in when they get here, Doctor ..." he trails off expectantly.

"Murray." The doctor sighs and runs a hand through his spiky hair. "He pulled through fine. He's in the recovery unit right now. We'll move him to a secure room as soon as you can arrange the manpower."

"What's the damage?" Jensen asks. His nails dig into the flesh of his palms, hidden behind his back.

"He should make a complete recovery, barring any complications. He's lost a lot of blood; the bullets lodged close to his aorta, and it took some time to get them out and clean up the mess. But he's in good shape, considering. A few weeks should see him back on his feet." Dr Murray looks at his watch. "I have to go. Tell the nurses' station when you've organised security and they'll move him into a private room. I'll be back to check on him later."

"Thank you," Jensen says, relief making him shaky, meaning the words more than he ever has. The doctor spares him a smile before heading back into the depths of the hospital.

Jensen goes over to the window, away from most of the other people in the room, and turns his phone back on. It vibrates immediately; a call from AD Ferris. Jensen takes a deep breath and hits the talk button.

_"Where the hell have you been?"_

He holds the phone away from his ear with a wince. This isn't going to go well. Right now, though, he finds it hard to care. Jared's alive, and Jensen means to make sure he stays that way. That's all that matters.

 

* * *

 

Ten minutes and one new asshole later, Jensen flips his phone closed and breathes out carefully. He still has a job—barely—and AD Ferris seemed mollified somewhat by the news that Jensen hasn't left Jared's side since the shooting. She was downright relieved that Jared's expected to make a full recovery.

"No thanks to you," she'd snapped when he told her. "How the hell did this happen?"

Jensen had explained as quickly as he could about the sniper, leaving out the part where Jared had moved away rather than let Jensen stand close enough to shield him. Even without letting slip the truth of their relationship, though, Jensen still feels like the most incompetent idiot to ever wear a badge. Jared had been shot on Jensen's watch. He'd nearly _died_ —would have, if the ambulance hadn't arrived as quick as it did. It was sheer dumb luck that Jared hadn't bled out right there in the front fucking garden. Jensen stares at his hands, the nails still bearing traces of Jared's blood, and shudders.

He has to see Jared. Right now.

He does that utterly clichéd thing every movie and TV cop does: he flashes his ID at the nurses' station and demands access to Jared's room. He doesn't know whether to be grateful or appalled when it actually works. The duty nurse asks him to wait a few minutes while they move Jared into a private room; he paces the hallway while they make the switch, and nearly bowls the nurse over when she tells him he can go in.

Then he walks into Jared's room and sees him lying still and pale and quiet on the narrow bed, connected to three monitors and an IV, and he doesn't care how he got in here. His knees give out; he fumbles for a chair, misses, and slides awkwardly to the floor.

Jared's hand hangs over the side of the bed. Jensen stares at it, willing it to move, even though it's far too soon for Jared to regain consciousness.

"I'm sorry," Jensen whispers without meaning to. His voice cracks, and he tries again. "I'm sorry, Jared."

Jared sleeps on undisturbed. Jensen pushes himself up and into a chair by the bed. Close enough to touch, not quite daring to.

"No, really," he insists, as if Jared is arguing. "I never meant—if I'd known this would happen, I'd—"

But that's pointless. Nobody knew this would happen. He's got to do better than that.

"It was never supposed to go this far," Jensen says quietly. "I don't—I wasn't supposed to get involved. I don't get involved. Ever."

One of the monitors emits a small, discreet beep. Jensen's shoulders tense up before he realises it's administering something—sedatives, painkillers, whatever—into Jared's IV. He relaxes, inching a fraction closer to the bed.

"You are, without a doubt, the most persistent son of a bitch on the planet," Jensen says, straight out. "You're like a five year old in a grown man's body. Except when you're trying to get me into bed, and then you're like a freaking Greek siren or something, and ..." He runs a hand over his face, his breath hitching. "And you can't ever do this again, okay?"

Jared doesn't answer him, of course, but that just makes it worse.

"I can't. I can't watch you like this. You have to get on your feet again, do your civic fucking duty and get your ass into witness protection. You'll be safe then. You have to be safe, Jared."

Jensen hears the wobble in his voice and snaps his mouth shut. _Damned_ if he's gonna lose it in the middle of the freaking hospital, in Jared's fucking _room_ , yet. No fucking way. But his chest feels tight and achy, and he has to keep blinking because his eyes are prickly and hot, and it ain't because his contacts aren't sitting right. And that's not good enough, damn it—if someone busted through the door right now, they'd be toast, him and Jared both.

"See?" he says, leaning back away from the bed, away from temptation. "That's the problem. You're a distraction. I don't like distractions. They're ... distracting."

He can picture Jared's eyeroll at that, down to the last flickering eyelash. Doesn't change a thing.

"Excuse me, sir? Are you Special Agent Ackles?"

Jared was right. That _does_ make him sound like he's got a regs book shoved up his ass. Jensen stands up and turns around, resisting the urge to scrub at his eyes.

A tiny brunette stands in the doorway, ID displayed on her lapel.

"I'm Special Agent McCoy. Sandra." She offers him a hand and brief smile. "I'll be overseeing Padalecki's protection after you leave, and his move into witness protection."

"Jensen." He shakes her hand and returns her smile for about half a second. "You've got a security detail set up for him while he's here?"

"Three rotating teams, twenty-four seven." At Jensen's raised eyebrow, she elaborates. "It seems our boy here was witness to more than an ordinary hit. Boreanaz was apparently jockeying to become the next in line by marrying the boss's daughter—or knocking her up, anyway. Didn't work out so well for him. Now the daughter's pissed, wants to get back at Daddy, but she won't turn state's evidence alone. We need him to keep her, and if we keep her, we can maybe bring the whole branch down. It means witness protection for him, but he might not have to testify at the trial if the Grand Jury likes what the daughter's got to say."

Jensen looks over his shoulder at Jared's prone form. He suddenly looks more frail than he did five minutes ago. Jensen has to force himself to turn back to Sandra; every instinct he has is demanding he go back to Jared's side and stay there indefinitely.

"Sounds like you've got things under control," he says.

"We do." She sounds pretty confident. "Go get some sleep. You look like you could use it. I can handle things here."

Jensen takes one more look at Jared, counts his breaths ( _one, two, three_ ) and manages another polite smile.

"Thanks," he says. "Good luck with him when he wakes up. He's ... a handful."

"I'm sure I'll manage." She tilts her head inquiringly. "Want me to pass on a message?"

Jensen hesitates. "No. I'm heading back to Dallas in the morning."

"Well, if you change your mind ..."

But Sandra is already moving past him to sit at Jared's bedside, and Jensen has to force himself not to intervene. That's not his place. He's only been temping, and this is his cue to leave.

So he takes it. Turns on his heel and walks away. All the way back to his hotel room, where he drinks most of a fifth of Jack and falls asleep on the bed with his cock in his hand and Jared's name on his lips, eyes squeezed tight against the dark.

 

* * *

 

**FBI FIELD OFFICE, DALLAS, TX  
THREE WEEKS LATER **

After he leaves the hospital, Jensen tries to forget about the Grand Jury and everything connected with it. He tunes out during local news reports while he's still in New York, ignores banner headlines in newspapers and once he's back in Texas, he generally goes into a profound state of denial about the whole thing. It's familiar territory. He knows how to navigate these particular waters.

Trouble is, he can't get Jared off his mind.

Everywhere he goes, everything he does, he's haunted by a pair of half-lidded green eyes assessing every move. Jensen puts it down to guilt; he feels like he left something unfinished by leaving while Jared was in the hospital. Never mind that AD Ferris has been hounding his ass since he called in (and hasn't let up once in the three weeks since); Jensen's dodged her orders before. He doesn't care to contemplate why he's toeing the line so readily this time when she yanked on his leash, but he knows it's got nothing to do with obedience to his superiors.

Days go by, and the hollow feeling in his gut gets worse instead of better. Jensen throws himself into work to try and fill it. He puts together profiles on every case that comes across his desk whether it's needed or not. He sends out emails to his counterparts in every field office in the Southwest, advertising his capacity for more work. He becomes snappish and irritable— _more_ snappish and irritable—to everyone around him, until everyone except AD Ferris is actively avoiding him. He sleeps maybe four hours a night, and none of it peacefully.

He can't do crosswords anymore. The sight of them makes him want to cry.

Several weeks later, Jensen receives an email from Special Agent McCoy. It's short and perky, just like its author.

> _Remember our mutual friend? He's real keen to catch up with you. Insisted he'd track you down himself if I didn't pass on a message._
> 
> _He says: if you're ever in Winchester, TN, stop by the Rack N' Roll Billiards and Sports Bar. They got country AND western on the juke, and the beer doesn't even suck._
> 
> _He's taken a real shine to you, you know. Don't fuck it up._
> 
> _Sandy_

 

Jensen stares at the email for a good ten minutes. He's not memorising the name of the bar. He has no intention of hauling ass to Tennessee. Jared's life is already a mess; he doesn't need Jensen stumbling into the middle of it, stirring everything up again. And Jensen's not at all sure he wants to get involved with Jared anyway. The heat of the moment was one thing; this is something completely different, and he's not sure what he's feeling will hold.

 _Coward_ , a small voice whispers.

Jensen hums a little under his breath, drowning out that voice, and deletes the email. Then he purges his trash to get rid of it permanently. He isn't going to see Jared. There wouldn't be any point.

 

* * *

 

Five months, three weeks and two days later, Jensen rents a car and drives northeast on I-40. He puts some Shooter Jennings on the stereo and very carefully does not think about what he's doing. If he thinks about it, he'll turn around, and he really can't handle any more sleepless nights.

 

* * *

 

**WINCHESTER, TN**

Jensen forgets the name of the bar the minute he walks inside. All the bars are the same in this part of the country, so names don't really help anyway. He's in the right one, and that's all that matters.

Well, almost the same. There's one small (huge, tall, broad-shouldered) difference about this bar in particular. Jensen sits in a corner booth and nurses a sweating bottle of beer, and tries desperately not to stare.

Jared looks good. Really good. He came in about half an hour ago, and now he's across the room playing pool and laughing with a bunch of people Jensen recognises from his case file—friends of "Jason Hutchinson", Jared's new identity. Jared moves easily around the table, comfortable in his surroundings, clearly well recovered from the shooting. He's grown out his hair a little, dyed it a darker brown, and there's at least three days' worth of stubble on his jaw. Jensen's fingers twitch, wanting to touch; he clenches them into fists and looks away. Jared's laugh echoes across the room, sliding warm into Jensen's chest, and his fingernails bite deeper into his palms.

He only came to see if Jared was doing all right, just to satisfy himself. Now that he knows, it's time to go.

 _So why aren't you moving?_ his conscience mocks.

 _Shut up_ , Jensen tells it. He'll move when he's ready. He's got a full bottle of beer in front of him; might as well finish it before he leaves.

He can't stop looking at Jared. Quick, furtive glances, as if it's a crime. It feels like one. It's a mark of how far gone Jensen is that he doesn't even blink at the thought—and that it doesn't stop him looking.

He _does_ blink when Jared looks up, mid-conversation, and catches him fair and square. It feels like watching in slow-motion with strobe lighting when he sees Jared straighten up and amble over to his booth.

"Hi," Jensen says, gripping his beer bottle tight.

"Hey."

Jared looks him up and down, eyebrow raised in wordless surprise. Jensen looks down at himself, wondering if he's spilled something on his shirt; then he realises Jared's never seen him in jeans and boots before.

"I'm off-duty," he explains, and is mystified when Jared's lips draw tight.

"I doubt that," Jared says, but doesn't elaborate. "What are you doing here, Jensen?"

"Nothing. Just, you know." Jensen shrugs. "Having a beer. Hanging out."

"Uh-huh. Tell me another one. You've never hung out anywhere in your whole damn life." Jared leans forward, hands on the table. "I already got an agent in charge of my case, Jensen. I don't need you checking up on me."

"That's not—I mean, I'm not here for that," Jensen blurts out. He fumbles his beer, sending it skittering over the table. Jared catches it easily in one hand, saves it from spilling.

"Bullshit," Jared says, all narrowed eyes and looming body. "You're always on duty. It's your defining characteristic."

"Things change," Jensen snaps, grabbing for his beer.

Jared holds it out of his reach. "Do they? Tell me about it."

He's challenging Jensen with his whole body, daring him to make some sort of move. Jensen's lost for words, unable to spit out the same few syllables he's been struggling with for months: _I miss you_ and _I'm an idiot_ and _tell me how we can make this work_. It sounds stupid in his head; he can't even begin to make himself say it aloud, with Jared standing there judging him.

Jensen splutters, unfinished sentences and bluster all that he can manage, and Jared nods. His mouth twists into a humourless smile as he thumps Jensen's beer back on the table.

"Yeah, that's what I thought you'd say," Jared says quietly. The he turns and walks away, straight out of the bar, and Jensen's left staring after him and cursing himself for a loser.

_Go after him, you fucking moron. Do the words 'last chance' ring a bell?_

He's up on his feet and out the door before his spilled beer hits the table.

"Jared!"

It's still warm outside, the sun slipping down the horizon and painting the sky dark purple and gold. Jared's shadow stretches out behind him, falling almost at Jensen's feet. Jensen wonders for a crazy moment if he can stop Jared by stepping on his shadow, like in _Peter Pan_.

He calls out again, a quick, "Jay!" instead of either name, and Jared comes to a halt about twenty yards away.

"What do you _want_ , Jensen?"

Jared sounds tired. He turns to face Jensen across the half-empty parking lot, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders squared. He looks like he's planted years deep in the ground, like he could stand there forever. He doesn't make a move in Jensen's direction, and Jensen gets the message loud and clear: the rest is up to him.

"I want to talk," he says, walking forward, stopping a few feet away. "Can we talk?"

"Talk, huh." Jared laughs, soft and short and not at all amused. "Why? What the hell else is there to say? I heard everything you wanted to tell me six months ago, which was a whole lot of _nothing_."

"If you stop and listen for five fucking minutes, you might hear something new," Jensen snaps.

Jared tilts his head, looking a little taken aback. Jensen huffs out an exasperated breath.

"Okay," Jared says with a shrug. "So talk."

Jensen takes a deep breath, and reminds himself that it's safe to do this. Nobody's watching. Nobody except Jared, and the only thing Jared will do is walk away if he fucks this up.

_Don't fuck this up, Ackles._

"I came to see how you were doing," he says at last. "I was—"

"Do _not_ say you were worried about me," Jared cuts in. "'Cause I got six months of radio silence from you says otherwise, and I know damn well you got my message."

"I didn't want to risk contacting you!" Jensen clenches his hands into fists. "They call it witness protection for a _reason_ , Jared."

"And yet, here you are," Jared says, and Jensen can't argue with that. He looks away, swallows down the lies crowding his throat, and shakes his head.

"Yeah," he says in a low voice. "I didn't ... I was gonna just—let it go. It seemed like the best thing to do." Best for who, he doesn't say, and Jared doesn't ask.

"So why didn't you?"

Jared's watching him with that same calm gaze Jensen remembers from before. It settles him, reminds him of all the reasons he's here, which all come down to just one thing anyway.

"I couldn't." He says it straight out, fast, eyes fixed on Jared's face. "I tried to—tried like hell, Jared, I won't lie about that. But every time I couldn't get to sleep at night, every motel room I stayed in, every time I heard a gunshot, there you were." He smiled, shrugging a little. "Taking up space inside my head, twenty-four-seven, til I wound up here."

"And now what?" Jared asks in an even tone. "What exactly do you want from me?"

Jensen opens his mouth to say it— _everything, anything, whatever I can get_ —and stops when Jared holds up one hand.

"You know what? I don't even care," he says. "I think I've heard enough."

He turns around and starts walking away with long sure strides, his boot heels clicking hard with every step. Jensen stands there and watches him go, sick failure rising up inside.

Jared looks back over his shoulder, not slowing down.

"Well?" he says. "You coming? Truck's this way."

He looks away again, but not before Jensen sees the grin on his face.

"Oh, you _fucker_ ," he breathes, and starts to run.

END

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Always By the Book (Podfic)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6613600) by [juice817](https://archiveofourown.org/users/juice817/pseuds/juice817)




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